Burning Cold
by Kamikaze Pedestrian
Summary: The Avatar walks alone down the stairs to the prison, and he comes empty-handed. It is a routine. A weekly visit. The ridiculous persistence of a self-righteous child.


The fire is taken from him; he is left with the cold.

It tears trough his robes, through his flesh, scratching at his bones with steely claws. There is cold stone beneath him, cold stone behind him, cold, unyielding metal bars around him. Ozai draws damp, sodden air into his lungs and it is only barely warmer when he breathes it out.

The guards who were once his subjects bring him chapped wooden bowls with food he doesn't eat, the Firelord who was once his son growls questions between gritted teeth he doesn't answer, the traitor who was once his brother gives him pitying looks he doesn't meet.

Once you fall deep enough pride ceases to matter, and so he turns his head and lets his hair hang in his face, body limp with apathy but eyes glowing with defiance.

The Avatar walks alone down the stairs to the prison, and he comes empty-handed. Though his steps are light they echo through Ozai's head. He doesn't cover his ears.

It is a routine. A weekly visit. The ridiculous persistence of a self-righteous child. When Ozai stands up he towers above him, several heads taller than the hero of legend.

The Avatar stands close to the bars, and he says nothing. Though subdued by the dim light of the cell, the bright yellow and orange hues of his clothes blind Ozai's eyes. He doesn't avert his gaze.

Half a year ago the boy saved the world. Now he wants to save its enemy. His naivety is laughable, his foolishness ludicrous. When Ozai snatches his wrist and grabs his hand in a tense grip, the Avatar's fingers seem thin and brittle like matches. He squeezes hard and hears bones creak.

The Avatar stands immobile, and he looks up with an expression impossible to decipher. Though filled with tears of pain his eyes are steady, never leaving Ozai's face. He doesn't understand.

He longs for fire, for heat to burst through his palm, for skin and fat and flesh to bubble and melt and burn. For cries of pain and shock and glowing rage, for immeasurable power to knock him to the ground and crush him in fury.

The Avatar stands alone, immovable, and his hand is as warm as ember.

Ozai leans his forehead against the bars, against metal so cold it burns.

They call it the cold-blooded fire.

He is told his brother mastered it early, that his flames went from yellow to blue before his voice begun to crack. Ozai watches his brother bend the lightning, the air crackling with electricity, and knows he was falling behind even before he was born.

Iroh tells him it feels like a prickling on the wrong side of the skin, from the inside instead of outside. He puts his fingers on Ozai's arm and sends little jolts to tickle his elbow to demonstrate.

"Like this, but inside," he says, and then ruffles static all through Ozai's hair.

It takes hours before his bangs stop sticking to his face, but even longer for his skin to stop tingling.

He is told his brother is meant for great things, that he is destined to become a hero. Ozai watches Iroh flirt with the chamber maids in the morning and scorch the training grounds in the afternoon and finds the images difficult to match together.

His father frowns when his eyes pass over Ozai where he sits beside Iroh before the throne, the heat from the flames making the air flicker. Azulon speaks only to his brother, the son who bends lightning after his will, and Ozai digs his nails into his palms.

"You'll get it any day now," Iroh says with a smile as they walk back through the corridors. Ozai bows silently to his brother the crown prince and hurries ahead.

He remembers the tingling, recalls it as he repeats the movements over and over, gathering heat in the pit of his stomach and honing it into sizzling daggers of energy. It vibrates just below the surface but doesn't break through. Ozai concentrates until beads of sweat form on his forehead and thinks of his father, of the throne behind the wall of flames, of the haves and musts. The lightning is only tiny sparks.

Again, he closes his eyes and repeats. He thinks of his brother, of fingers on skin, and the lightning zaps in a stream of light from his arm.

Iroh smiles too much. He smiles as Ozai stands to demonstrate his new skill, he smiles as the lightning casts blue shadows on the walls of the throne hall, and when their father nods approval, Iroh both smiles and winks.

Ozai leaves without the triumph of victory, digging his nails into his palms until he draws blood.

His chambers are dark and inside the mirrors his reflection is contorted, obscured, looking like someone else entirely.

Ozai thinks of his brother, and takes aim.


End file.
